Tomorrow, and for Eternity
by foxboxtango97
Summary: John's past comes back to bite him, quite literally, Sherlock would like to know exactly who is doing the biting, and Moriarty doesn't quite understand that if you want to live, you don't mess with them. A follow up/side story to Moon Song, rated T for non-graphic dark themes and Moriarty.


**Tomorrow, and for Eternity**

John looked blankly at the tent wall beside his superior's head.

"I've made a mistake," he said. Major Richards' eyes narrowed as he stared at him.  
"How so, Captain?"

John swallowed once.

"I've been compromised, sir."

The Wolf whined.

"By whom?"

John allowed himself one second to close his eyes.

"Colonel Sebastian Moran."

-/-\-

"John."

"Hmm?"  
"Will you tell me something?"

John glanced at Sherlock over the top of his newspaper.

"Something you don't already know?" he asked, amused.  
"Who sent you away?"

The newspaper was lowered to John's lap and his eyes became distant. The Wolf's ears pricked up and trembled slightly.

"Sherlock," he warned. The Wolf growled, rumbling low in its throat as a warning.  
"It's one of the only things I don't know about you, John. I want to have all of you. All of your dreams, your hopes, your fears. Your past, your present, and your future. I don't understand why you won't tell me this."  
"Sherlock, I _can't_. Please, not right now. I'm not – it's not that I don't want to – I just. I'm sorry, Sherlock. Not right now."

Sherlock stared hard at John, and then stood up and walked into the kitchen. John heard the kettle switch flicking on and clink of mugs hitting each other. He swallowed, hating that he couldn't bring himself even to utter the name to Sherlock, his partner in everything. He deserved to know – but John couldn't bear it. He had lived the rest of his life trying to forget that moment, but he never would. And it would always hurt.

-/-\-

"Hey, Seb," John muttered, gathering up his courage.  
"Hmm?"  
"What do you think about those stories? The ones about the soldiers who go mad."  
"What, you mean the one Thomas was talking about the other day – about a wolf-man who howled at the moon and thirsted for blood? John, seriously?" Sebastian looked at him, askance. "You can't seriously be thinking about believing those stories, can you? You know they're not true. They're just old folk tales to scare children from going out at night."

John smiled, but it was weak. He turned away.

"Yeah, you're right. It was a stupid thought, never mind."

-/-\-

"Hello John."  
"For fu- Jesus, Mycroft, I _have a goddamn phone_, okay? Just ring me for once!"  
"I have not seen my brother look so agitated for a long time."  
"What are you talking about?"  
"I think you should confide in him."  
"Mycroft-"  
"Good afternoon. Wish my brother well."

-/-\-

"Sebastian I need to talk to you."  
"Shoot, John, what do you need?"

John stared at him, hard.

"It's important."

Sebastian stared back, uncomprehending.

"Okay, what do you need?"  
"Look, you know how I asked you about those stories a while ago?"  
"Yeah, and I said you were mad." He raised an eyebrow. "What of it?"  
"They're true."

Silence stretched on.

"I mean, they're not exactly true, but close enough. People just make up the bits they don't know, and considering we're generally pretty good at hiding when we want to, people tend to not know a lot. But the basics are there–"  
"John," Seb interrupted. "Are you seriously trying to tell me that you believe in those stories?"  
"I don't just believe in them, Sebastian, I'm _part of them_."  
"John-"  
"No, you've got to listen! I can't do it anymore! It's a part of me, it's not unnatural and I can't hide it anymore or else I'll go insane!"  
"What are you talking about?!"

John just looked at him, and allowed the Wolf out. Sebastian sucked in a breath, eyes widening. The Wolf stared, pleading silently for him to understand, to not run, _please Sebastian, don't_ –

Sebastian turned, and fled. The Wolf howled, and John surged to his feet, looking around wildly. There was no way that the noise hadn't been heard. He strapped on his helmet and ran, dodging past other soldiers and making his way to the Major's tent.

"I've made a mistake."  
"How so, Captain?"  
"I've been compromised, sir."

-/-\-

"_Really?_ _He just showed it to you?"_  
"Yes, sir."  
"_Fascinating. Truly fascinating. Well, you know what to do now, don't you. He'll be transferred as soon as possible, and then it's going to be 'easy peasy, lemon squeezy' to take him out._"  
"Yes, sir."

-/-\-

Sherlock stared at John as he bustled around the flat. It was a cleaning day, something that Sherlock didn't willingly participate in and actively tried to avoid. Usually he was forced into washing or drying plates, but for the most part John was content enough to let Sherlock make his excuses and remain stretched out on the couch.

It didn't matter what he did, be it whine, cajole, bribe, or plead with John, he refused to tell Sherlock about the last remaining puzzle piece. Even resigned silence hadn't brought the usually compliant doctor out of his self-imposed vow of silence. Sherlock sighed and narrowed his eyes. He would figure out what happened, one way or another.

He didn't wanted to hurt John, not by any means – it was the very opposite that motivated him to find the information. He wanted to know what happened so that he could avoid the same mistake in future.

Sherlock was almost entirely positive that he would never deliberately hurt John. That wasn't what worried him. It was the unintentional hurt that concerned Sherlock most of all. He was well-known for being careless of other people's emotions and as much as he did truly love John, even he wasn't endlessly forgiving of Sherlock's mistakes. Eventually, he was certain that something he did would cause John to flinch and finally realise what a terrible mistake he was making by letting Sherlock so completely into his life.

He nodded to himself. He would discover who it was that had hurt John. And if he could find them, he would make them pay.

-/-\-

"Captain Watson."  
"Yes sir?"  
"It's been arranged to have you moved to another facility. The fact that you have been compromised has made it too risky for you to remain here. There is a convoy coming here tomorrow from Kandahar. They will pick you up and take you to their base after a brief scouting mission. They do not anticipate any trouble on the return trip, but you know as well as I do that it's very difficult to anticipate anything out here. If opposition should be met, you are not officially cleared for duty by the chief officer at Kandahar and are therefore not meant to engage in any form of combat. Do you understand?"

John set his jaw.

"Yes, sir."

-/-\-

_He wouldn't do it. There was no way on earth that he would stoop so low as to ask for Mycroft's help in any way, shape or form. Absolutely not._

This is what Sherlock said to himself as he stood outside his brother's office door. One of Mycroft's minions passed by for the fifth time and he scowled at her, sending her scurrying off. He knew there was a camera currently pointing right at him, and no doubt his brother was quite enjoying Sherlock's internal struggle. That thought, more than anything, stiffened his spine and made him turn on his heel and walk out of there, coat flying out behind him. He passed Anthea at the front desk and she looked up at him innocently. He sneered at her. He was sure she could help him, but asking her for assistance would almost be worse than going directly to his brother.

No, he would do this on his own.

-/-\-

"Down, Watson!"  
"God fucking dammit, I'm as fit for duty as anybody else here, I'm not just going to sit around while everybody else gets slaughtered!"  
"The hell you are!"  
"Stuff it!" he shouted, and crouched down next to the car, swinging his gun over from where it had been lying against his back. A bullet flew passed his ear and hit the windshield. "Snipers," he called, warning the others of the imminent danger.

He lifted his rifle to his shoulder and peered through the scope, looking over to the tall hills, trees, and boulders for any sight of the sniper.

"Fuck!"

John flinched, but didn't look away, spotting a single figure crouching on the hillside. Breathing in and hoping to God that he was a good enough shot, he squeezed his finger on the trigger. Once that was done, he turned his attention to the soldier next to him. He was almost completely stretched out on the ground, head propped up by the wheel of the now extremely dinted car. His hands were pressed against his thigh, and the fabric underneath was quickly staining red.

"Did you get him?" he asked.

_I don't know, I'm not a fucking sniper!_

"Yep," John answered briefly, flashing a quick smile. They both ignored the flurry of bullets that landed dangerously close.  
"Brilliant," he muttered and closed his eyes.  
"Oh, no you don't," John said loudly. Glancing around, he quickly stood and grabbed the first aid box from the car, dropping back down to a crouch as soon as possible. "Come on," he said, slapping the man's face. "You're not off the clock yet."

The man laughed.

"What's your name?"  
"Bill. Bill Murray."  
"Short for William?"  
"Yeah. Always hated the name, though."  
"Right. I'm John Watson."  
"Pleasure," Bill said, grinning weakly. John rolled his eyes, though he was smiling back.  
"I'm a trained doctor, so I can help you, I'm not just stuffing around."  
"You're a doctor?" he looked alarmed.  
"Yeah, why?"

John threw the box open and grabbed the bandages out.

"What the hell are you doing on the front lines, then?"  
"Just because I'm a doctor, doesn't mean I'm a medic. I just happen to be a soldier who originally studied to be a surgeon. And besides – I'm the best shot of my team."  
"Not a fucking sniper, though."  
"Yeah, well. You take what you can get, and right now, I'm saving your life."

He pushed William's hands away from the wound and started wrapping the bandage tightly around the section of his leg above it.

"I know it hurts like a bitch, but you're going to be fine. Once we get the others, we can go back to the Kandahar base and get you looked at there. I don't even think you'll need to have it amputated, so that's always a plus, right?"  
"Ha, yeah," Bill said, face white. "That's my main dream – don't have one of my limbs amputated."  
"Good man."

The next minute seemed to happen in slow motion.

John was holding Bill's shoulder with one hand and pressing tightly against the hole in his thigh with the other. He heard the sharp _crack_ and felt the shudder rip through Bill's body into his own, but couldn't figure out what was happening until seconds later. Bill's eyes widened, his mouth opened. Both of them looked down at his chest. Slowly, ever so slowly, red started to stain his shirt. The spot grew quickly, ever so quickly, and John was still gripping Bill's shoulder with one hand, the other pushing against his chest, against his heart.

He knew he was shouting Bill's name, but he couldn't hear anything over the rushing of blood in his ears – so loud and prominent in his own body and rapidly leaving Bill's. Another _crack_ rent the air and he rocked backwards, losing his grip on William entirely and falling face first into the sand.

Fire rushed through his veins and the Wolf howled. It cried with the pain of a lost comrade, and the pain of helplessness. John yelled and clutched his left shoulder, holding it tightly as he tried so hard not to let the Wolf loose. Changing with a bullet trapped in his muscle and bone would only make the wound worse, no matter what he thought he could do otherwise.

He pushed himself up on one elbow and gazed sightlessly at Bill. His face was slack, hands against his heart and leg, pain and such _terror_ on his face that it broke John's heart and soul.

"No!"

He reached forward and white hot agony shot through him so suddenly he almost blacked out. He tried to move his arm again, and this time the resulting throb swept him under, into silent unconsciousness.

_Please, God, let me live._

-/-\-

Sherlock scowled at the computer screen in front of him. An extensive search into John's military history (that involved hacking into multiple secret, supposedly 'secure' databases) had revealed nothing except that he was honourably discharged after being shot in the shoulder during a transferral to another army base. The official reason for the transferral was lack of trained medical staff at the Kandahar base, but Sherlock more than suspected that it was not the real reason. His eyes narrowed. Perhaps even Mycroft didn't know. The idea made him smile, despite it probably being unlikely.

At least if he couldn't have John's whole past, no one else could either.

-/-\-

"Brought you a little getting to know you present," Sherlock called, waving the memory stick in the air. He would never admit it out loud to John, but he _had_ found all of the riddles and problems fascinating. Entertaining, even. They had even helped to take his mind off John's mysterious past. "Oh, that's what it's all been for, hasn't it? All your little puzzles; making me dance – all to distract me from _this._"

The door at the other end of the pool opened.

Sherlock's throat constricted and it felt like someone had coiled their hand around his heart and was squeezing. _Hard_.

Moriarty walked pleasantly down the poolside, dragging a snarling John Watson by a metal chain. A crude, steel collar had been placed tightly around his neck and was secured with a padlock. Low, angry threats were growled out as John dug his heels into the floor and tried to pull back. A red laser focused unerringly on Sherlock's chest.

"I swear to God, I could kill you in seconds."  
"Shush. Bad dog." He giggled maniacally. "Honestly," he said, exasperated, directing his words towards Sherlock as though John didn't matter. "The chances of him getting out of that collar are _very_ small – I had it tested personally. I didn't test it myself, of course, but I was there when it was. Oh, but you should have seen it – Seb all trussed up, snarling and growling and yelling to get out." He sighed wistfully. "It was glorious. And anyway, even if he could somehow escape and kill me, which he couldn't, he wouldn't have very long to enjoy it."

John had stopped digging his feet against the floor, but the fire in his eyes promised a special kind of hell for Moriarty.

"I think what I would do," he continued, as though he was contemplating the merits of different biscuits. "Is to have you killed first. To be honest, I'd love to do it, to make it slow, and messy, and _painful_. But I think, just for something a bit special, I'd have you killed first. And then I'd cut one of the pup's arms off. The left one, maybe – that is his dominant hand. Although, if I was feeling particularly sadistic," he paused. "Which I am, it would probably be the right one. Then both are damaged."

Bile rose up in the back of Sherlock's throat.

_How had he ever been fascinated by him, how had he ever thought they were made for each other, were equals, when he said those things about _John_. Kind, caring John, who also wasn't – who wouldn't hesitate to put a bullet in a man's shoulder if he tried to kill Sherlock, who would place his sharp teeth around every killer's neck just to make sure they would never get to him. But also who took care of Sherlock. He who made countless cups of tea, who made him eat when he forgot, who didn't mind when Sherlock was lying across the whole couch, because he'd just pick his feet up and drop them back in his lap._

Sherlock's brain had stopped. His heart was beating double time. His hands were shaking behind his back. _And he couldn't think of a way out._

"What do I have to do," he said slowly, carefully, attempting to navigate his tongue around the words. "For you to let him go?"

And Moriarty smiled, and it was cold, and black, and twisted.

"You'd have to join me, Sherlock. I can have this pup neutered and sent to a shelter, and then you can come and work with me. _Picture it_. All the world, even your big brother couldn't stop us, Sherlock. Maybe I'll put you in a collar, too, just for fun. It would be a nice one, though – nothing like this. No, I'm thinking soft leather, maybe blue; just like the scarf you wear."

Moriarty came to a stop, drew the chain up in his hand, and jerked it so that John fell to the floor. He gasped around the collar, hands flying up to his neck as he went down hard on his knees.

"Subjugation," Moriarty sang. "Isn't it a lovely word?"

Sherlock could only stare in horror as John heaved in deep breaths, trying to get oxygen back into his lungs.

"We could do it, you and I. We could make the whole world kneel at our feet. And you'd never be bored, Sherlock," he promised, voice suddenly eager and young. Sherlock could taste the bile on his tongue now. "We could have everything we wanted, and you'd always have something to do. We could have chess matches, and pit our armies and strategists against each other. Think about it!"  
"Stop," came a whisper.

John spoke hoarsely from the floor.

"Stop this. Stop all of this. You're mad."

Moriarty's earnest demeanour disappeared within seconds.

"Don't you try and diagnose me, Johnny-boy, I know you're not that kind of doctor."

John looked at the floor, away from Sherlock. Sherlock stared at the back of his head, hoping, wishing intently for some kind of contact.

"I'll tell you what, Sherlock," Moriarty started, looking at him hard. "I'll make you a deal. If you come with me, _right now_, I'll keep the pup alive. I'll let him keep both his arms, useless though he might be. What I'll do is take him with me, and for two hours a day, I'll let you take care of him. And who knows, you might learn to like it – I just know that it would suit you, Sherlock. You're such a dominant person, always putting others down just for the small swell of power it makes you feel. Think what you'd feel if you had power over half the world."

One of John's hands came away from the collar and made a circular motion.

_Keep him going_.

Sherlock could see the tiniest glimpse of a claw, and sudden realisation jolted down his spine. John had somehow managed to change just his hand – just enough so that he could work the wolf's claw into the padlock as a makeshift sort of lock pick. His _brilliant_ John. Sherlock hadn't even known it was possible.

"Where would he be kept?"

Moriarty's smile made a comeback, his eyes regaining the crazed gleam they had held before.

"I know a place," he said. "He'd be kept quite…_safe_, there – nobody would bother him just as long as he kept to himself. Of course, he would be locked up, but the longer you stay, the more you feel that what we are doing is right, the more you'll understand. And the more power you assert over him will grant you more time with him. Surely that isn't an offer you can refuse, Sherlock, the chance to dominate over him totally and completely – in every way possible? I cannot believe that you would give such a thing up for something as boring and obvious as _sentiment_."

In the shortest, second-long gap between the end of Moriarty's promise and the beginning of Sherlock's improvised speech, there was a tiny _click_. Moriarty's head snapped to the right, to stare down at John so fast his neck cracked. John stared up at him, smiled a full-teeth smile, and changed. Within seconds, he was lunging at the madman, and Sherlock tensed in anticipation of the blood and flesh that would go flying.

It didn't.

Another, huge, compact wolf threw itself to the ground in front of Moriarty and John crashed into it. They both stumbled, John staring at the newcomer in surprise. The red dot on Sherlock's chest had vanished.

There was a split-second standoff, in which Sherlock and John stared at the foreign wolf, the wolf stared at John, and Moriarty gazed reverently at Sherlock, a small grin playing at the corners of his mouth.

"Well I can see you weren't expecting that. I'm sure he's very pleased to meet the both of you – this is formerly-Colonel Sebastian Moran."

The shock on Sherlock's face was evident also on the wolf's snout. John's ears were laid back against his head and, in an almost automatic response, he stepped back into a submissive stance, before remembering who he was and standing tall and proud again.

"Shake, Seb."

Moran attacked.

He leapt for John's throat, teeth open and lips curling into a snarl. John flew back against the wall and growled in return. For a minute, they only circled each other, sizing the other one up carefully.

Sebastian Moran in his wolf form was enormous – even bigger than John, though Sherlock now realised that, taking John's height into account, he might be quite a small werewolf. Although John's wolf was compact and muscular, it was significantly smaller, and his left shoulder was by far his biggest weak spot. Moran targeted it relentlessly, attacking it whenever he could and never allowing John enough room to retreat and shake the pain off.

A chill ran through the entirety of Sherlock's body as he wondered how, exactly, Moran knew where John had been injured.

Moriarty started humming happily to himself, and Sherlock, piecing together bits and pieces from the frustratingly small snippets of information he had gathered from John, finally understood. He charged Moriarty and grabbed him around the neck, shaking him hard.

"Did you organise it?"

The madman smiled.

"Was it you? _Did you give the orders for John to be shot?_"

_Time slowed._

John's whole body shuddered, his teeth buried in Moran's flank. Moran raised his head and pricked his ears, a smug, wolfy smile playing around his snout like he didn't even register the pain. Moriarty didn't move.

_And stopped._

"But of course, my dear."

_Fast-forward._

Sherlock wasn't quite sure what happened after that. John seemed to be in multiple places at once: closing his jaws and ripping the flesh away from Moran's leg; he was in front of Sherlock, practically roaring at Moriarty; and then lunging with front legs out and knocking him over. Suddenly, the wolf disappeared and a very human John Watson stared down at Moriarty, breathing hard.

"How could you? How _could_ you? _What had I done to you!?_"

Moriarty smiled, crazed, but his eyes were wide with the first fear Sherlock had ever seen him show.

"You were too good, Jonny boy. I couldn't have you destroying all of the hard work I'd put in – I was just starting to win against the big, scary Holmes. I could hardly have one tiny, insignificant little werewolf of a soldier throwing a spanner in the works, could I?"  
"_What?_"  
"I meant what I said, Sherlock, every bit of it. If your brother was taken in by the promise of domination, if he's been beaten, imagine the pleasure I'd get, the challenge of beating the second Holmes – brighter and more volatile than the first, but perhaps not as clever."

Sherlock's gaze was unseeing.

_Mycroft Holmes had been partially responsible for John's situation._

"He had the _nerve_ to seek me out, to test my loyalty, to shove the war right into my face!"  
"And what will you do to him? Will you do to him as you would do to me? Are you, little pup, going to kill me?"

John looked dispassionately at Moriarty, then changed and dug his claws in.

Blood and flesh did go flying, then, spattering across the wolf's snout and Sherlock's body. John stood wearily and turned away from the bodies on the floor. He tilted his head up to look at the hidden seats in the above level.

"Run," he said coldly. "And pray that I do not find you."

A gun was dropped, clattering against the seat on its way to the ground, and quick footsteps faded away.

Sherlock opened his mouth with the intention to say something, anything, but John held up a hand.

"I'm tired, Sherlock. Tomorrow, I will rage, and I will rant, and scream, and possibly destroy something. But for the moment I need to sleep, and I need to forget. And I need you to help me."

Sherlock pressed his lips together obediently and raised a slightly trembling hand to wipe away the blood splashed against John's cheek. John blinked, and one tear escaped, making its way down his face and cutting a track through the red and the dirt.

John sighed and leaned into Sherlock's hand, and then bumped his shoulder affectionately. Together, they left the bodies on the floor and began their way back home, hands clasped together firmly with their fingers intertwined.

Tomorrow there would be time for anger and disappointment, for hurt and acceptance and pain. For now, there was sleep, and the blissful emptiness of it that came with sharing a bed with one whom you truly trust.

John woke slowly, and painlessly, drifting into consciousness on the back of a peaceful and dreamless sleep. He turned his head slightly and his eyes met Sherlock's.

Yesterday hit John, and the memories broke around him, the pain following shortly after. He winced as he shifted to lie on his side. Sherlock's eyes were wide, his mouth small, and his gaze flickered from John's face to their hands, fingers still gently laced together. Though his lips did not curve, John's eyes softened and the corners crinkled, and Sherlock breathed out and tightened his grip.

"Hello," John's voice was rough with sleep, and Sherlock's mouth quirked briefly.  
"Morning," he replied cautiously.

John stared at him searchingly.

"I don't blame you. I hope you know that."  
"How could you not?"  
"Sherlock," he whispered. "There was nothing you could have done, believe me. _Please_. No blame can be placed upon you – you didn't even know me then. If there is anyone to blame, it is Moriarty, and Sebastian Moran. And possibly your brother, but even Mycroft is fallible, and he cannot control everything, no matter how hard he tries."  
"You were shot, John. It ended everything for you."  
"That's where you're _wrong_, Sherlock, it ended nothing except a time in the army, and I was most likely due for that anyway. If anything, it began something – a whole new chapter of my life that I don't see how I ever could have done without. Because of them, I met you. You, a crazy, brilliant, genius, madman of a Consulting Detective, who waltzed into my life without so much as a by-your-leave and stuck there stubbornly. I couldn't get rid of you, even if I wanted to, because you have become such an enormous part of my life. I can't conceive what it would be like without you – I love you. And nothing I ever say will be truer than that."

Sherlock released the breath he'd been holding and if the mask he wore in front of everyone but those closest to his heart slipped and broke and shattered, and tears slid down his face faster than he could wipe them away, John would never tell. He leaned in, kissed Sherlock softly, then brought their knotted hands up and kissed them too.

Eventually, tomorrow became today, and that was alright. There would still be time for everything they didn't want to talk about, and everything they did, and everything they felt and didn't, and everything else in between. If they were lucky – very lucky, and though Sherlock had never believed in luck before, he hoped for it with every fibre of his being, then – they would have the rest of their lives for it, and an eternity beyond that.

_The End_

* * *

A/N:

Hello everyone. Gosh, that one was a bit darker, wasn't it? When I finished Moon Song I was more than a bit surprised at the response - a number of people were really disappointed that it ended, which makes me feel a bit great, and also a bit sad, because I didn't have anything more in my brain that could be used to continue the story. I don't really do sequels, mainly because I hardly ever finish one story in the first place. I also got a couple questions about who sent John away, and I was reasonably sure I wanted to address the issue anyway, so this happened. The first bit is a bit dodgy, just because I had written the main part and felt it needed some sort of lead-in. I'll most likely go back and change it later. I also wanted this to be a really long one-shot, but it's not actually very long - again, another reason why I'll probably come back to this one and revamp it a bit.

I'd like to reiterate my overwhelming gratitude to everyone who reviewed, or followed, or favourited, or added to their alerts list, or any combination of the four. You guys are awesome - and thanks even to those anonymous peeps who read my stuff and scuttle off again. I used to be one of you, I understand ;) No, seriously, I'm just constantly surprised that other people want to read random stuff that comes out of my brain and seem to _enjoy_ it. You guys are weird. And awesome, like I said.

Cheers,  
Foxboxtango97

I disclaim.

**EDIT - 26/07/2013**

**A/N2:**

Hi again! I thought it might be nice to come back to this like I said I was going to. I know it's been quite a while, but I've been going through an emotion rollercoaster recently that has nothing to do with anyone or any major event in my life and has everything to do with my own, stupid brain. So yeah. Needless to say, I haven't been up to much! This makes me genuinely sad, because I love writing, and most of the time I find it very therapeutic (is that how you spell it?).

Thanks to anyone who reads, subscribes, follows, favourites, reviews, etc. You're all amazing. You're my spirit animal. All of you.

Cheers,  
Foxboxtango97 :)

P.S any mistakes are all my own.


End file.
